To Mourn a Mockingbird
by elegantideas
Summary: My friend and I discussed how the events in To Kill a Mockingbird would have been changed if Boo Radley hadn't saved the kids on that Halloween night. I later came across a fan fiction with a similar idea, but this is my take on it.


It felt like the funeral was only yesterday. No, perhaps it was yesterday. Atticus Finch wasn't sure of anything anymore. All he was sure of was that he had had to get a custom coffin made for his daughter in Mobile. The undertaker in Maycomb didn't make them that small.

The November morning was chilled and damp, and a mist hung heavily around Atticus, moistening his eyes. Or was the wetness due to his tears? Yes, it was the later; he was weeping like the willows all around him. As he walked, his normally upright shoulders sagged forward like their branches under the weight of it all. He was the only one out at this time of day.

The Finch family plot was in the center of the cemetery. Atticus's legs could barely support him the closer he came to it, but he forced himself onwards. When he at last reached it, he collapsed at the foot of his wife's tombstone, burying his head in his hands.

"Louise," he whispered between sobbing gasps for breath, "I'm so sorry. You know I loved you. I still do. Even though my memory is going, quicker now than ever, I still remember the day you died."

Atticus smiled sadly between his tears. "You made me promise you that I'd care for our children as they grew up. The past seven years, I thought I did it. I tried to be a man for Jem to look up to, a source of wisdom for Scout, and a giver of love to them both. Just the other night, Louise, when Jem willingly agreed to take Scout to her Halloween pageant, I thought to myself, 'I did it, Louise. I did it for you.'"

A new bout of sobs racked his body, and Atticus shook his head back and forth. "But I didn't do it, Louise. I didn't do it. Because here they are, next to you, and here I am, without any of my family. I'm so sorry!"

He shuffled on his knees until he was in front of his son's grave. "And you, Jem. You were always sharp as a blade and thoughtful and kind, but you were stubborn too. I remember the day you wouldn't come down from the tree until I agreed to play football for the Methodists." Atticus chuckled.

"But your stubbornness saved my life when you refused to leave me outside the courthouse that night no matter how many times I told you otherwise. You saved me, Jem. But I couldn't save you." Atticus's voice caught and it took a few moments for him to continue.

"You were growing up to be such a fine man, a fine brother, a fine-a fine… son!" Atticus cried. Feeling the pain of the last word, he doubled over.

He removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, then shuffled again to his daughter's grave. "And my Scout," he said fondly. "My sweet, sweet Scout."

Shaking, he took a slow breath in. "Even though you got yourself into trouble, if you didn't have a heart of gold, no one on this earth does. You always came to me for advice, and I know you took it to that golden heart of yours."

"Nothing ever stood in your way, not even a lynch mob. Oh Scout how brave you were that day. You were there for me, just as your brother was. But I wasn't there for you that night." To breathe, Atticus loosened his collar, but still he gasped for air.

"You were just beginning to see the world. How I wish you could have seen it all. No matter what anyone tells you, you were always my little ray of sunshine, even in a pair of pants. Remember that, Scout? Well, without you, it's cloudy evermore."

A gust of wind blew, ruffling Atticus's black hair and making him shiver. "My children! Oh it's not fair for them to be taken this young. Why didn't I go out with them that Halloween night?"

He shook his head and on the breath of the wind, whispered, "Mockingbirds they were."

The wind fell still and a cold rain started, drenching Atticus as he sat catatonic, staring at the tombs of the ones he loved. He watched as the rain washed over their names, carved in gray stone.

 _Louise Julia Finch_

 _1900-1929_

 _Jeremy Atticus Finch_

 _1922-1935_

 _Jean Louise Finch_

 _1926-1935_

"You got me, Bob," Atticus sobbed as he rocked back and forth on his heels. He ran his fingers along the headstone, outlining the names of his beloved. "You sure got me."

The very next day, Atticus Finch walked into the kitchen, dressed in his work clothes and straightening his tie.

"Good morning, Calpurnia," he greeted his maid politely, but without the shadow of a smile. Unfortunately, someday soon he would be forced to relive her of her duties. She wasn't needed. Atticus was perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself, and he had no children now in need of a mother-figure.

Calpurnia, seated at the kitchen table, looked up from the Negro newspaper she was reading. "Mornin', Mr. Finch."

Atticus went over to the coat rack and put on his overcoat. As he took his hat down from the rack, Calpurnia called, "Where are you goin' dressed like that, Mr. Finch?"

He paused. "To work, of course," he replied tightly. He snatched up his briefcase and was almost out the door when Calpurnia stopped him once more.

"Mr. Finch," she began tenderly, rising from her seat at the table, "are you sure you should be going in? Perhaps you need a break after… after…"

"I know what I'm doing, Cal." Atticus was on the front porch when he called back to his maid. "But I do appreciate your concern."

Atticus arrived to work on time, just as if it were business as usual. He stared for a long while at the sign on his door. The sign mocked him, reminded him of his failures in saving Tom Robinson and later, in saving his own children. He couldn't take it.

With a strength Atticus Finch was never known to have possessed or to ever be known to possess again, he ripped the sign clean off the door and threw it to the ground. It landed with a metallic clank and bounced pathetically, uselessly. The words _Atticus Finch, Attorney at Law_ lay face up and stared at the ceiling.

Atticus pushed the door aside and marched toward his desk. With one clean swipe, he sent every paper on his desk flying off in disarray. The little sign that usually sat proudly in front of him on his desk to inform clients that they were indeed speaking to _Atticus Finch: Attorney_ crashed to the floor. It was that title, that stupid title, that had started it all.

He collapsed into his desk chair, surveyed the damage, and began to sob. Atticus ran his fingers through his hair and pulled it with enough force to yank each individual piece out. _Scout... Jem..._ He let out a low moan of despair. _They're gone..._

"Mr. Finch?" a concerned voice snapped Atticus's head up. It was Mr. Underwood, peeking fearfully around the corner. "Is everything alright?"

"No it's not, Mr. Underwood," Atticus said shortly. "But there's nothing you can do about that."

"I...You have visitors, Mr. Finch." Mr. Underwood adjusted his collar.

"The only visitors I care to see are in a hole in the ground." Atticus's voice shook as he spoke. He took a rattling breath in and cried out, "They were all I had!" Then softer, "They were all I had."

Mr. Underwood opened his mouth, then, finding no words, snapped it shut. Seeing the mess of papers all over the office, he began to stoop down to clean them up, but evidently thought better of it, for he stopped. He simply stood there in Atticus's doorway, waiting for the lawyer to compose himself.

"I apologize for my conduct just now with you, Mr. Underwood," Atticus sighed, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. "I apologize for all this." He gestured to the seemingly hurricane-blown state of his office.

"You have no need to apologize, Mr. Finch," Mr. Underwood said softly. "You've just undergone something no man should ever have to be subjected to."

Atticus shook his head. "That doesn't excuse my behavior. Yes, I acted out in grief, but the damage is still done. I-nevermind," Atticus sighed once more. "I'm making no sense. Nothing makes sense. Just send my visitors in, please."

Though apologizing for the sorry state of the room, Atticus made no move to clean it. Mr. Underwood ducked his head back into the hallway, and Atticus sat nonmoving at his desk, his chin in his hands.

Mr. Underwood reappeared in the doorway, this time with three little Negro children in tow. The editor needn't introduce them, though he did anyway. Atticus could recognize them anywhere. They all had their father's eyes.

"Mr. Finch, the Robinson children."

At the tacit direction of the eldest daughter, they all filed in and lined up in height order, as if they had rehearsed. Atticus supposed they probably had. Two girls, one boy, and they all wore their Sunday best. The two girls had matching pink hair ribbons and the boy wore a pink tie, which he fiddled with constantly.

The tallest and oldest child spoke first. "Mista' Finch," she began slowly, closing her eyes for a few moments as if trying to remember a script. "Our mama ain't been the same eva' since our daddy died. She been all quiet-like and not sayin' much. So we didn't think she'd say nothin' 'bout us a'comin' here to talk to y'all. And she didn't say nothing, so here we are."

Atticus couldn't help but smile. "And what can I do for you, miss?" he asked gently.

The girl nodded to her sister, who picked up her cue. "We wanna…" she paused and took a deep breath, then continued as if she were reading from a book slightly too difficult for her. "'Spress our gr-gratidue to you, Mista Finch. Ya know, for tryin' to save our daddy."

Atticus was speechless. He looked from expectant face to expectant face, but no words came to mind. The children were so innocent and had more love in their pigtails than most grown men possessed in their entire body.

"And we was hopin' we'd'a be able to play wit' you's kids!" the little boy smiled hopefully, puffing out his chest and clasping his hands sweetly behind his back.

The middle sister kicked him. "You wasn't supposed'a say that yet!" she said in a low voice.

Atticus would have smiled again at the sheer innocence of their response if his eyes hadn't been welling up with tears at the mention of his dear children. "I'm afraid you won't be able to do that," he said softly.

"Why not, mista?" the boy asked, looking genuinely troubled.

"My children are dead," Atticus breathed, so quietly that he could barely hear himself. Any louder and he would have lost control.

"What, suh?" the eldest girl asked politely, leaning toward the desk at which Atticus sat.

Atticus tried to summon the detachment he spoke with in court. He swallowed heavily. "I said my children are dead!" he boomed in his courtroom voice. The children shrunk back in fear. Immediately, Atticus felt guilty but for whatever reason, he failed to formulate an apology.

"I'm-we sorry, Mista Finch," the eldest girl stuttered as she backed out the door. Her siblings followed her. "We real sorry about you's kids."

The children's exit from the room sucked all the air out of it. Atticus cried for the Robinson children without a father, and for himself-the father without any children.

As he reached the post office on his return from work, Atticus felt his children's absence like a shot in the stomach. Maybe if he stood long enough and stared hard enough, Scout and Jem would materialize, racing each other down the road to be the first into their father's open arms. Now, his arms were open, but they were empty.

Atticus wasted no time upon his entrance into his house. Immediately after greeting Calpurnia distantly, he went directly to the little storage chest in his bedroom in which he kept his shotgun. He kept it there for an emergency, and until today, he had little cause to use it. Save for the Tim Johnson incident, he hadn't shot a gun in thirty years. The barrel felt strange in his hands.

"Mr. Finch?" Calpurnia stopped him as he exited his room. Upon seeing the gun in his hands, her eyes widened. "Mr. Finch-"

"Please move aside, Cal," Atticus requested calmly.

"Mr. Finch, what in God's name are you doin' with that gun?" she questioned fearfully, clenching her fists around her apron.

"Shooting."

Calpurnia raised her voice to an impressive level. "I won't let you go outside, Mr. Finch. You haven't been yourself and I know why. I miss 'em too, Mr. Finch, but you can't go and-"

"Calpurnia, really," Atticus assured her placidly, "there is no reason for concern. I'm just going to see whether I can shoot a bluejay or too, take my mind off things."

Calpurnia was silent for a few moments and, unable to raise an objection, acquiesced. "I suppose if you say so, Mr. Finch. I'll be a'keepin' my eye on you, though."

"What would I do without you, Cal?" Atticus said as he moved past Cal and out the door.

He walked through the yard and toward the small grove of trees a few paces beyond his property limits. A decaying fence provided little protection to the magnolias whose leaves had begun to droop with the approach of winter. The air was crisp against his cheeks and it kept him alert and attentive.

A cacophony of bird chatter arose from the trees. As far as Atticus could tell, the song belonged primarily to bluejays, precisely what he had hoped to find. He raised his gun and pointed it between two intertwining branches.

Atticus tried to readjust his glasses, then ended up throwing them off his face. He couldn't see through the tears anyway. He didn't want to see.

He released the trigger. Once, twice, thrice the shots rang out deafeningly. Birds chirped frantically and fled the tree like a cloud of smoke rising. Atticus lay his gun down and walked over to inspect the damage.

As he approached, Atticus's steps slowed. The sight of what he had done brought him to his knees and made him wail in despair. There she was in the shade of the tree, a pure creature lying still with a bullet clean through her skull.

He had killed a mockingbird.


End file.
